None So Blind
by Keeper 0f The Chronicles
Summary: When Watson is blinded during an investigation by one of Holmes' own chemical concoctions, the doctor's loyalty and  their friendship is put to the ultimate test. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** I've come across a few blind!Holmes fics here and there, but for the longest time wanted to write a story where Watson was incapacitated by a visual impairment whose consequences were worked into the plot. And also dealing with the younger, petulant, more selfish Sherlock Holmes of early Canon. But the right plot bunny never seemed to strike until recently. Have scrapped and re-written it twice since it started gnawing at my brain, but now have this exactly where I want it, which doesn't often happen._

_This is non-slash, and I promise the story will drastically pick up pace in the second part.  
_

* * *

The events that threatened the foundations of my friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes and caused me to lose my eyesight began towards the close of summer '84. It was a particularly stifling day, I recall, one that gave me cause to open my collar and undo my cravat somewhere along Oxford Street. By the time I'd reached home, I was in dire need of a stiff brandy - purely for medicinal purposes, mind you. My constitution no longer accustomed to that oppressive heat and humidity indigenous to Afghanistan, I was in the process of dragging myself up the stairs, panting heavily, when Sherlock Holmes' frantic cry reached my ears.

"_Watson! Come quick, man!"_

Naturally, my own inconsequential plight was cast aside by the alarm my friend had raised, and with great trepidation I fairly bounded up the remaining nine steps. There was nothing I dreaded so much as arriving home after being away for any great length, as the foremost fear which weighed upon my mind was the condition I might chance to find my friend in upon my return. If it was not some fix with the growing number of shady individuals we dealt with on a continual basis, then more often than not, I'd find him in trouble of the self-inflicted variety. As he'd no case on when I left early that morning, and it was unlikely something of interest had been brought before him in so short a span, the untold terrors my imagination conjured up in those few fractional seconds before I reached the sitting room door were enough to freeze my blood through the haze of sweltering heat.

I burst through the door, heart firmly lodged in my throat, inwardly bracing myself for dealing with whatever horrible situation would greet me on the other side. My revolver may have been well out of reach stashed away in my bedroom night table, but I was ready to put my old rugby tackle to good use.

Our rooms were in a state of disarray, markedly worse than when I'd left for my club in search of some respite from my fellow-lodger's black moods and refusal to remove himself from the contorted position he'd occupied in his armchair for the past four-and-twenty hours. He was brooding over some chemical analysis of vital import, and so I felt both the air and company would be less stale elsewhere.

Having failed to immediately sight him upon my entrance, I called out Holmes' name, frantic that he may have been, at that very moment, being strangled behind the settee. Or something equally perilous to his continued existence.

"There's no need to shout," came a flat, impassive voice from behind.

Sherlock Holmes was bent over his chemical table, looking a bit wilted from the rising mercury, though otherwise none the worse for wear. And distinctly _not_ in mortal danger.

Wearily sinking back against the wall, palm fixed to my pounding chest, I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, heavens! How you startled me, my dear fellow."

"Doctor," said he, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to take in the sight I presented, "You really should refrain from exerting yourself in this weather. You are puffing away like an asthmatic."

It would do me no good to explain the reason why my nerves were all in shreds, and furthermore, my concern was likely to earn me a lengthy admonishing on the drawbacks of allowing emotions to cloud over facts. It is fair to say that this did not lessen my interest in what had prompted him to so enthusiastically call for me the very moment he heard my tread on the stairs. And set about asking just what was of such import that my presence was demanded so ardently. I may not be the most clever fellow in shoe leather, but I thought the question was a fair one, or at least, one that skirted well within the realms of sanity. Though for the glower he aimed at my humble personage, one would think I'd just accused him of being an escaped Bedlamite.

Sometimes, I do wonder.

Holmes rose in a huff, and shoved a beaker containing a mouldy colored frothing concoction in my hands. He then plucked out his cherry wood pipe from the rack atop the mantle before flinging himself into his chair to indulge in a substantial pout. Obviously, he regarded this malodorous potion as some great achievement to be commended for, as he truly was quite sensitive about the fruits of his putterings at the chemical table.

"A new discovery, I take it?"

Holmes sniffed. "It is of little consequence, doctor."

"I should hardly think that! Pray, what… precisely _is_ this?"

Taking a seat opposite him, I dangled the receptacle of sludge in his direction, hoping against hope he would reclaim it before whatever experiment it contained ate through the glass. He declined my unspoken offer, instead choosing to assail the room with clouds of tobacco smoke.

"Anyone can observe from it's telltale consistency " he finally broke the silence, though his tone was severe, "that I have successfully mixed bisulfate of bartya with oxidized permanganic acid. Furthermore, when the compound remained stable, I was able to mix in a reagent of my own devising, and If I am not much mistaken, this unassuming little mixture which, by your wrinkled nose, has unduly offended your gentlemanly sensibilities, is nothing less than the single greatest scientific achievement of the nineteenth century."

Whilst I have remarked elsewhere how noteworthy were my friend's abilities as a chemist, it remains to be said that before the name of Sherlock Holmes became so widely known and exalted, his successes in the aforementioned field were nothing less than pioneering. I may also assert, without the fear of being charged with the writer's tendency to embellish, that his skill was such as to have not escaped the notice of the foremost scientific minds of our day. He may have been struggling for firm footing in establishing himself as something more than an amateur theorist, it is true, but well before his thirtieth year, Holmes' findings were lauded by both premier journals and the scientific community. Due to this, his claim of having formulated something so unprecedented did not at all seem impossible, though perhaps a mite overstated.

After a moment of pregnant silence, I urged Holmes to not be so stingy with the details.

"Oh, do forgive me, dear fellow. I hadn't realized you were interested in my trifling little accomplishments."

"I am _always_ interested," said I, with conviction, thinking I had managed to bungle things once again, and somehow insulted his intellect with a well meant but half-witted remark. What this could possibly have been, I'd no notion, but I could guess at no other explanation for his increasing hostility. "Well then, your humble friend has discovered the chemical formula which minimizes the duration of temporal length required for one brain cell to communicate with its fellow, therefore shortening the interval between thoughts. Furthermore, I have been adjusting the base compounds and it is clear the thing is also useful in sharpening the thought process itself. My hypothesis - and I shall lay to rest any doubts as to its validity very soon, my boy - suggests that the longer it is allowed to build up in the system, the benefits will only increase."

I took a moment for his words to settle in. What Holmes was claiming was nothing short of miraculous, but as a doctor who has worked with an extensive array of drugs, witnessed firsthand the miracles along with the mania for these substances… well, I was equally delighted and terrified for my friend. He already had a penchant for relying upon artificial stimulants under the right circumstances. I fear my mind was paralyzed by the belief that, if given the opportunity, Holmes would destroy himself in the quest to substantiate this brain enhancing formulation.

The only thing to be done then, was for me to prevent that opportunity from occurring at all costs.

With all the one enthusiasm would reserve for a rodent in a trap, I eyed the beaker in my hand. "What you're telling me is that this can be taken orally to… _make you smarter_?"

"Essentially."

"What are the side-effects?"

He waved a hand in dismissal. "That remains to be seen, but I assure you, they are inconsequential. Man now has at his disposal a means to hone and polish his mind. What else is there, in this dull, abhorrent world, than the pursuit of knowledge?"

"Holmes. Modern medicine has given us wonders, but the selfsame drug that cures a man with a weak heart can stop it's beating just as easily. Morphine is a marvel, yet even when not outright abused," here I cast a pointed look at him, "can cause horrific bowel troubles, faintness, anxiety. I needn't go on."

"Then don't."

I found myself transported to the sideboard, not quite sure how I got there. After setting the concoction down, I poured myself a large glass of spirits. "You have no compunctions about misusing yourself for _this_," I gestured to the beaker with my now full glass.

"It is for science, doctor."

I emptied the glass in one draught.

"Have you been sipping it already?"

"As a matter of fact, I have."

I'd begun pouring out another glass when a knock sounded at the door. It was Mrs. Hudson, bearing a telegram on a salver. I swiped it off, rather rudely, I confess, though our landlady was used to the oddities of her tenants. She simply shook her head fondly, and patiently waited in the event a response was needed.

"Holmes, it's from Sir Algernon Bainbridge!" said I with some fervor once I had read the abrupt missive.

Sherlock Holmes peered at me with one brow raised, his pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. He was most likely the only man in London who had not heard the name of Sir Bainbridge, for it had been the talk of the city for a fortnight. The man was nobility in name alone, he was a drunken wastrel who was squandered what was left of the meagre family fortune on his love for the drink. He'd also a fine reputation as a womanizing cad, thus his recent engagement to the lovely Miss Emmeline Parker, only daughter of the prestigious Bond Street jeweler, Mr. Edmund Parker, was causing a raging scandal.

This I explained to Holmes, who otherwise had no use for such frivolous gossip, and did his very best to forget what bits he did accidentally hear.

"Read it to me, would you, Watson." A renewed puff of smoke leaked from the pipe.

"_Will call on you at seven-thirty STOP For God's sake you mustn't refuse my case FULL STOP_

_- Sir Algernon Bainbridge"_

For a moment, he sat in brooding contemplation, before declaring he would indeed take the case.

"And Watson, be a good fellow and fetch me that beaker. We are just in time to put my findings to the test."

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Apologies for the delay in getting this part posted. It should have been up days ago, but RL has been very intrusive lately, and no interwebs for me after malware struck my poor computer. Blech. **

**

* * *

**

In my time living at Baker Street, I've been given my fair share of injunctions, some so critical that the outcome of a case or a client's very life balanced on my ability to execute those orders with perfect precision. More oft than not, though, Holmes' demands were minor ones he could just as easily carry out himself and did nothing but affirm his own claims of being the laziest devil in shoe leather. These behests may have varied greatly in nature, but one commonality they all shared was that of my unquestioning willingness to obey.

Except today, my conscience would not allow me to do so.

Instead, what I'd every intention of doing was to calmly make my way back to the settee, pick up the morning copy of _The Times_, which had been carelessly discarded on the floor beside it. From there I would methodically ignore my companion, whose keen grey eyes I could already feel boring a hole through my back, and conceal myself behind the newspaper until such time as our client arrived. Altogether too overconfident in my cunning and Holmes' tenacity, I'd gone so far as to take a seat, absently turning a page or two, the silence between us the most deafening sound to ever torture a poor fellow's ears.

"Watson. The formula. _Now_." He drawled his words out, the patience dripping from his voice with every word. Of course, he had already deduced what I was up to.

Feigning deafness was more of a strain on my nerves than charging headlong into the battlefield to drag out comrades who'd been made amputees by those same Jezail bullets that nearly cost me my own life. Both acts, however, gave one the vague sensation of impending doom.

"Very well, then," said he, with a snarl after some minutes had elapsed. "I can see what you are up to, though, and so help me, I will not stand for it!"

Tossing the newspaper aside with undue force, I was just in time to catch sight of Holmes returning from the sideboard with his precious beaker in hand, and was about to make some biting remark we should both regret when sense returned to Baker Street. Instead, I choked on those words as I watched him set the beaker back down upon his chemical table and simultaneously pour within it two more vials - one containing a chalky liquid, the other a fine green powder.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" I asked instead.

"Fortifying the formula."

I do not recall even having the urge to move, much less commanding my legs to carry me, yet there I was, with my hands clenched firmly around his sinewy wrists as the mouth of the beaker touched his lips.

"Holmes," I pleaded, "I don't hope to dissuade you from this, but if you must experiment on yourself in such a mad way, then let it be done in moderate increments. You've had enough for one day, I think."

"Oh, is _that _what worries you so?"

"Of course it is! Why else would -"

"Do you honestly believe I am unable to see straight through your mind as though it were made of glass? No, no. Your intentions, my dear fellow, are quite clear to me. You covet the formula for yourself."

"This is raving insanity! You fully well know my stance on your penchant for self-inflicted poisoning. I must truly be stupid, because how you can be so deucedly careless with that great brain is beyond my capacity to understand. We know nothing of the side effects, or the long term ramifications. Just… all I ask is that you go about it a bit more cautiously."

He shrugged his wrists out of my grasp in one brusque movement.

"Thank you _doctor_, but your advice is neither needed nor wanted."

What pushed me to do it was watching Holmes raising that beaker in mock salute. I despaired of having to cross him, though the man himself had left me with no other alternative. I swiped the accursed thing out of his hands, meaning to toss it to the floor like the refuse it was, and have a troublesome cleanup be an end to the rotten affair. But his reflexes have always been sharp, perhaps even keener still for the influence of the wretched tonic, and had my hands trapped between his own within the bat of an eye.

Those iron strong fingers pried at my own as we grappled for control over the formula. I made some attempt at overturning the thing, a manoeuvre he obviously foresaw before the thought crossed my feebler brain, and with one deft movement, Holmes slid behind me and had my back pinioned against him, my arms trapped by his own. I then tried to usurp the thing out of his grasp by forcing it upwards - a valiant aim preemptively thwarted by the inhuman strength and the drug induced desperation that now controlled my friend.

There may be many aspects wherein I am lacking, but if this half crippled, run-down medico has naught else to his credit, I have always had more than my share of pluck. Since all other movement was restricted, I bent my head forward, bit down upon the bottle's crown, realizing I should be lucky to lose only a few teeth in this endeavour. As I did so, Holmes stumbled backwards, his downfall the fringe ends of our carpeting.

With a terrible crash, he went down, and I in his wake, going down with the proverbial ship.

Unfortunately, instinct and little else were at play, my rational mind shut down for the moment, and my mouth, I was horrified to realize far too late, still remained clamped on the beaker, the formula rapidly spilling down my throat, choking me.

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

***hides* Please don't kill me for leaving it there! I have a few more pages written out and this chapter was going to be tediously long if I let it run on much longer. **


End file.
